Miss Stewart Disposes
by wallyflower
Summary: The temporary flying instructor observes Professors Granger and Snape. The first of two parts.
1. The Visitor

It was when Severus Snape came to visit that Susan Stewart, the temporary Quidditch coach, began to revise her opinion of Hermione Granger.

Miss Stewart first met Professor Granger in the drawing room adjacent to the Great Hall, where the Headmistress and staff waited for dinner to commence; Professor Flitwick, a diminutive, cheerful old wizard, had summoned a decanter of aperitif, to appreciative murmurs of the rest of the staff. It was into this atmosphere of piped tobacco and the clinking of glasses that Hermione Granger appeared suddenly, with hurried apologies and snowflakes in her hair and scarf.

Headmistress McGonagall wasted no time introducing Susan, who suddenly had no idea what to do with her shaking hands. It was unlike her to be startled by any celebrities—being a celebrity herself, as she often had to keep reminding the reflection in the mirror—but as she looked at Hermione Granger's warm but unsmiling face she received the unjustified impression of having been brushed off by someone Famous.

And Famous Hermione Granger certainly was. In the five years since she had left her Muggle college, Susan had become acquainted with the vagaries of the wizarding world under threat of Lord Voldemort; and so she could not perhaps be blamed for being a little in awe of Hermione Granger, recipient of Order of Merlin (first class), distinguished scholar, and Mistress of Transfiguration. She came back to herself as she heard the Headmistress speaking to the woman in question.

"Miss Stewart is replacing Rolanda for the next two weeks," McGonagall murmured over her drink as Hermione Granger folded herself, economically and without haste, into an armchair opposite Susan. "In the capacity of flying instructor and Quidditch coach. She wrote that book—I wonder if you remember it, Madame Pince procured it last month—The Science of Flying."

"I do remember," Professor Granger said, inclining her head in thanks as a floating shot glass made it to her direction, courtesy of Professor Flitwick. "I gave a copy to Harry some months ago."

"Oh yes," McGonagall said. "I understand that he's teaching the younger Potter how to fly."

"Without much appreciable success." Her steady brown gaze swiveled to Susan, who fought the impulse to straighten her back and shove her hands in her lap. "I read a few chapters myself, before passing it on. I found it very informative and sensible, Miss Stewart; I'm sure my friend will find it of use."

High praise indeed, Susan thought—and yet it did feel like high praise, and she felt a rising, unwanted blush creep from her collar to her cheek. It was well-known that Hermione Granger was difficult to impress in any professional field, and now, confronted with that face which hardly smiled and with that no-nonsense voice, Susan was hard-pressed not to feel flattered by the short words of approval.

McGonagall—or Minerva, as she had encouraged Susan to call her—and Professor Granger moved on to other topics, such as the approaching Hogsmeade weekend. Susan Stewart, silently holding her glass, availed herself of the opportunity to study the Transfigurations mistress.

The entire staff seemed to like and respect her—they had shouted hearty welcomes upon her return and some had now clustered round her chair to congratulate her on some paper or other—and yet she received all of this enthusiasm with hardly a smile. Well-dressed and proper Hermione Granger was unfailingly polite, and seemed to take care to ask after those small matters that peppered the lives of her colleagues, and yet she never smiled. Even Minerva McGonagall, the strictest woman Susan had ever met, lavished smile upon smile on her former student. Susan wondered how a wide, toothy grin would look, imposed on that polite, not quite pretty face, with its high cheekbones, low, disciplined eyebrows and large but half-lidded brown eyes. Susan wondered, too, how old she was, for there was a suggestion of wrinkles in the corners of her mouth.

Before she had time for further examination, Susan heard the dinner bells ring, and the staff rose to go inside to dinner; it was some days before Susan had the chance to speak to Professor Granger again.

/ \ / \ / \

In the succeeding days, Susan Stewart forgot entirely about her, and saw her only at mealtimes. There was the pressing matter of becoming acquainted with her students and struggling for some semblance of authority; Susan's small stature and youngish-looking, freckled face made her seem hardly older than some of her overenthusiastic students. She was impressed by their energy, and with the number of students who came after class for tutoring, talking about Quidditch teams and Quidditch cups.

Life settled into a pattern of sorts, broken only by the arrival of a strong storm, and a piece of news delivered over the dinner table.

"Severus is back from the Continent, have you heard?" It was Minerva's voice; Susan craned her neck to see the recipient of this remark, and found Flitwick nodding madly. "He's staying in Edinburgh next week. For a guest lecture, you know. I suspect it will turn out more like a press conference than anything else."

"It was in the Prophet," Flitwick said. "I don't suppose he will have any time to stop by."

"I wrote him an owl to tell him he was welcome. No response yet."

Susan felt the first fingers of excitement squeeze her gut. Her mother was a great admirer of Severus Snape, spy and hero, famous lecturer on the conjunction of potions and arithmancy, and now celebrity thanks to the biographies written about his most mysterious life. In the first he had been vilified and the public clamor for his imprisonment (for this was at the time of his trial for crimes committed in war time) grew even stronger; in the second, any and all claims against his character and deeds had been confronted by a woman called Laetitia Pym.

Of the two there was no question that Pym's biography was the closer to the truth; compiled from interviews with the man in question, documents both public and previously secret, and testimonies from various celebrated parties, the biography had catapulted Severus Snape into public adoration seemingly overnight. Susan herself had not understood the extraordinary charm of the man until she had picked up both books. For a man so publicly scorned to suddenly be exonerated, and with such convincing proof… Susan understood why wizards and witches who had never before had any interest in the academic vied for seats in his lectures and appearances.

It was, perhaps, coincidence that at the time the man first enjoyed the first hints of popularity, the reading public had grown weary of sensationalist literature, and began to be interested in serious subjects; Susan's own publishers informed her that there had been a noted decline in sales for paperback romances and Gilderoy Lockhart's adventure stories, and that in response publishers had picked up books on anything from magical apiculture to Muggle automation. It was in this milieu that Severus Snape, newly exonerated hero, had found himself with a book on revisionist household potions, and a willing audience. (Susan knew that her own book's popularity was the result of this unprecedented, and now almost-receding, thirst for knowledge on the part of the reading public.) The two books he had published since then had experienced unprecedented bestseller status; it was not surprising, therefore, that the rest of the staff turned to this conversation between Minerva and Professor Flitwick.

All the staff, perhaps, except Hermione Granger, who remained uninterestedly picking at the vegetable mystery on her plate. Pomona Sprout, the Herbology Mistress, was sitting between Susan and Miss Granger and spoke above the clamor, "Are you coming with the Hogwarts contingent, Miss Granger? Professor Slughorn and I have made plans to attend the lecture. It's on the use of von Hoek's theorems in predicting potion viability. I thought you might find it of interest."

"Oh yes," Susan found herself saying. Professor Granger met her eyes and Susan forced herself to continue. "My uncle is a publisher. In his office, I—I chanced upon a paper of yours, Professor Granger, on von Hoek's theorems and their application in volume-change transfigurations."

"Oh, that." For the first time, Susan was rewarded with half a grin and found herself ridiculously pleased as Hermione Granger favored her with a five-second half-smile before selecting a carrot with a fork. "How curious that you remember it. It was published two years ago."

Susan could think of nothing to say and was saved by Professor Sprout: "Well? It's this Friday evening, Miss Granger. The Warden has been kind enough to reserve us four seats. I have been so hoping that you would join us. Minerva is coming as well."

"Yes, Miss Granger," Flitwick said from Susan's other side. "You must be the fourth in our party. I'm sure Severus will be very pleased to see you."

Before Susan could dwell on the fact that nearly the entire staff called the Transfiguration mistress "Miss Granger" rather than by her proper title, the woman herself stopped the chorus of agreement by saying, "I'm afraid I won't be able to make it, Professor Sprout. I have a meeting with the library commissions committee."

There was a collective groan. The library commissions committee, composed of Professor Granger, Madame Pince the librarian, the bursar (a smallish man to whom Susan had never been introduced) and half of the school board, met monthly to discuss proposed acquisitions for the library and each of the faculty departments. Attendance was a must for every member of the committee, as the staff knew well, as they turned to discuss who would fill Miss Granger's place in the Hogwarts contingent.

Pomona Sprout, however, dared pat Miss Granger's highly intimidating shoulder to say, "It really is a pity, my dear. You were always his favorite student. You had the best letters of recommendation he ever wrote, and I understand you worked very well together on that project the B&B comissioned. Wolfsbane potion, wasn't it?"

A high-pitched, squeaky sound, close to a squeal, made half the staff wince. Everyone turned to look in the direction of the Divination apprentice, Cassandra Gillespie, with whom none of the older staff seemed pleased. "_You?_" said Miss Gillespie, half-admiringly, half-incredulously. "_You _worked on a project with Severus Snape? Oh Professor Granger, how _thrilled _you must have been!"

"As I recall," Professor McGonagall said dryly from her position of many seats away, "neither of them was very thrilled about the prospect."

Professor Granger turned to face Miss Gillespie's flushed face, framed by the wild hair and frivolous earrings that was the fashion among the younger set. "It was many years ago, Miss Gillespie," she said. "A decade, I believe. I was still an undergraduate at Oxford." Susan had to admire a woman who could work with a celebrity—who must have known him on quite intimate terms—and not tell all about it. There seemed to be many merits to Professor Granger's kind of reserve. It was consistent with Susan's portrait of the Transfigurations mistress' personality—that of detachment, and a dislike of displays of great emotion or enthusiasm; a practicality that suited a woman of her age, and lack of relative attractiveness.

"A _student!"_ was Miss Gillespie's wince-making exclamation. She seemed to have a singular talent for speaking in _italics_. Susan fought her prejudice against Miss Gillespie's clothes and voice and air of unmitigated shallowness, as well as her facility for quoting passages from that most stimulating publication, _Witch Weekly. _It seemed a battle that many of the staff seemed to be losing, as they rolled their eyes and turned to their food. "An undergraduate, and you worked with him on _such_ an _important _project! That is just _amazing_!"

Professor Granger inclined her head.

"And Severus was only a teacher," Flitwick said cheerfully as dessert appeared before the staff. "Not the great striding colossus he is now."

Professor Sprout snorted. "But of course he was," she said. "Fair hid out in this castle, he did. That was the time of the Skeeter biography, you remember."

"It was very good of you to keep him company as you did, Miss Granger." This was Flitwick again. "I'm sure it was a great comfort to him to have the support of a colleague. As I recall you became quite good friends."

Susan's gaze slid to Miss Granger and even though there was nothing in that imperturbable expression that changed, and even though she (Professor Granger) said nothing, Susan's quick eyes took in the thin line of her lips and the white knuckles that gripped her fork; Susan's gaze met Professor McGonagall's, and it occurred to Susan to say something to change the topic; but the end of dessert was upon them and various members of the staff got to their feet, and Susan could only share a helpless glance with the Headmistress as the high table emptied. She was not quite sure what had transpired, but she found herself with an apology for Professor Granger and no courage to speak it, as the woman herself departed.

/ \ / \ / \

It was an unanimous, unspoken decision that anyone but Miss Gillespie should be found to replace Hermione Granger in the Hogwarts party for Severus Snape's Edinburgh lecture. Susan had meant to ask who it was (part of her having hoped, secretly, that it might be herself) but became distracted during the week as she fell into meetings with new Quidditch captains and first-years with acrophobia, as well as with her publisher, who came to visit Hogsmeade. It was a busy, seemingly monotonous life; but she was quite satisfied, and found herself collapsing into bed almost nightly, exhausted and dreaming of books and the scent of buttercups.

Friday came, and half the staff had forgotten about the excursion to Edinburgh. The next day, Saturday, was some festival or other in Hogsmeade (Susan was not as familiar with the village as she wanted), and there was a debate in the staffroom as to whether the older students as well as the staff should be allowed to participate, as they had never been in years prior.

Cassandra Gillespie, closest to Susan's age among the staff, had knocked at Susan's door on dreary Friday morning and suggested that they go to the festival together; Susan, despite herself, was powerless to say no as Miss Gillespie squeezed herself past the door of Susan's quarters, proceeded to her closet and started to pick out frocks for Susan to wear. Looking warily at Miss Gillespie's clothes and her air of youthful excitement, Susan found herself thinking wonderingly of Hermione Granger, and whether a practical woman like that had ever found herself excited about school balls, or clothes—or flowers perhaps, in any capacity but the academic.

Susan had only two classes for the day, and decided that at her disposal was a well-earned break. When the last first-year had left her on the pitch, she went into the small locker room that she had appropriated as her own and fished out a set of robes, not quite fashionable but good enough for a walk through Hogsmeade and its collection of shops.

Feeling like a student playing truant, she fought the temptation to skip to the gates; on a whim she even walked through what was called the Fellows' Garden, through which the students were not allowed to wander. She felt herself on that happy medium between the simple giddiness of youth and the wise, tempered sobriety of the old, and spent the rest of the day indulging a series of small whims—an ornament for her hair (for tomorrow's festival), an owl to her parents, a small box of chocolates. It was a pleasant surprise, always, to discover within her purse the rewards of minor celebrity, and it was a satisfied young woman who let herself in through the gates—to find herself startled by the sight of Severus Snape stepping out of a black car.

/ \ / \ / \

Many wizarding families had cars, particularly those with young children; the cars tended to be old-fashioned ones, dark in color and long in the hood, for wizards found nothing appealing in the sleek, toy-like designs of modern Muggle automobiles, built for speed and style. (Susan's aunt had remarked once that wizards had no need of the former and no taste for the latter.) This was one of those old-fashioned cars, and it was with no small surprise that Susan found herself in front of it as one of the best-known men in the wizarding world came out, resplendent in a gray suit, shoes like mirrors and gold watch-chain, tie and an old, polished cane; so surprising was the sight that she found no words to say as he heard her step on dry leaves and turned to her. (It did not escape her notice that his cane was, for a few moments, held in a defensive position.)

"Good afternoon," he said. "Are you headed inside?" he asked, indicating the gates with the cane.

"Oh yes, sir," Susan found herself saying, cursing the nervous, suddenly damp palms that must be wetting the paper bag with her hair ornament. "I'm sorry. I don't quite know how to address you. Shall I call you Professor, Doctor or simply Mister?"

He smiled then—a sidelong, pickerel smile, the quotation came to her—and seemed to forgive her tendency to babble when nervous. "Even though I haven't been staff for many years, my Hogwarts colleagues are still in the habit of calling me Professor," he said. "If you like, miss, you may call me the same. However, you seem to have the advantage of me. Are you staff or student?"

"Temporary staff," Susan said, fighting the urge to curtsy. "Susan Stewart, sir. Replacement for Madame Hooch for these few weeks."

The smile—oddly attractive on such a harsh, not quite handsome face—widened and he approached her, indicating with his hands an offer to carry her packages (his cane being tucked under his arm). Perhaps it was the waning afternoon light that was most forgiving to his features but she knew his age and found that he looked younger than she had imagined, for a man who had known such a hard life. Distracted temporarily by his face (and that remarkable nose), she realized that he was speaking of her book, and found herself coloring with embarrassment.

"Oh, no," she said, waving her hand (now freed of the hair ornament package) awkwardly in a gesture of dismissal. "Please say no more about it. After all the fuss made about it I myself am inclined to think of it as slipshod and popularist."

"By no means," he said as they both turned to walk up the path. "I found it entertaining, to be sure, but more importantly, quite well-researched and matter-of-fact. I was particularly fond of your commentary on how brooms should not be transfigured by amateurs into sleeker reincarnations."

They talked on until they reached the gates, and by the time they had reached the statue of Bagshot the Blind on the second floor Susan was deep enough into the conversation to barely notice that Professor Granger was talking to a student outside her office. Susan should not have been surprised at the pause in his footsteps, and the answering pause in Professor Granger's conversation, but she was surprised when Professor Snape turned to her and said, "How fortunate that I should find her so quickly. It was Professor Granger I came to visit."

"Oh yes," Susan said, remembering. "You must have just come from your lecture. I was very sorry to miss it. I'm sure she feels the same way."

"Nonsense," he said pleasantly. "I'm sure she was happy to get out of it."

Before Susan could ask why, Professor Granger, the soul of politeness, came to meet them, sending the lingering student away (but not without the student's flinging curious glances in Severus Snape's direction).

"I see you've met my erstwhile colleague, Miss Stewart," Professor Granger greeted them.

"Oh yes," Susan replied. "I chanced upon him at the gates, and he was kind enough to help me with the results of my foray into Hogsmeade," she added, indicating the paper bags in Snape's arms.

"Professor Granger," the man himself said, bowing his head; she inclined her head in reply, and he said, "I hope I am still in time for a late tea at the staffroom? I remember Hogwarts' buttered tea-cakes with great fondness."

"Certainly," was the reply.

Into the short awkward silence that followed, Snape said suddenly, "I hope you know, Professor Granger, that I have come with the sole intent of persuading you to join tomorrow's Hogsmeade festival."

The woman in question wrinkled her nose in distaste. "No, thank you. I can think of many more restful things that I would rather be doing rather than chaperoning teenagers."

"Oh no, not as chaperone," was his answer; "I asked the Headmistress earlier this evening if you were on duty, and she replied in the negative."

"Very perspicacious of you, I'm sure. No, thank you."

Snape turned to Susan. "You must come," he said. "If Miss Stewart proposes to accompany us, then won't you consent, Professor."

"I think it's time for tea," said Professor Granger.

"I'll join you both there," Susan said, gesturing at Professor Snape to return her packages. "I must put these in my room upstairs."

"Oh no," Professor Granger said, fishing her wand out of a pocket and relieving Snape of the packages with a levitation charm. "Come into my office and I'll ring for a house-elf to take them up. If I am to be cajoled into coming to tomorrow's festival, Miss Stewart, you must remain to make sure I don't lose my temper."

It was done, and as they walked to the staff room in silence. Susan thought about how surprising it was that plain Hermione Granger should be visited all the way from Edinburgh by a man of such stature; it was even more surprising that her company, this evening and at tomorrow's festival, seemed to be the sole purpose of his visit. She supposed that a man like Severus Snape must not want for friends, and it made her conscious of two things—first of all, a humility in Severus Snape, in that he did not seem to forget old acquaintances; and second, a quality of sincerity in Professor Granger that must attract and retain such friendships.

Susan had thought at first that it was probably most difficult to become friends with Hermione Granger, who gave away so little. To be sure, she was courteous and warm and took care always to inquire (tactfully) about one's affairs, but even as she invited confidences, she was so grudging about giving them in turn. However, Susan had begun to form a more complete picture of her (Professor Granger) in her mind; and the _clip-clop_ of three pairs of shoes on the hallway (as well as the counterpoint of Professor Snape's cane) was the accompaniment to her growing realization that there was a quality to be prized in such a woman. She was well-loved by her friends, apparently treasured as a colleague by Severus Snape, and adored by children of all houses—this last being the most surprising, for children were so likely to be grudging with affection when it came to strict, competent teachers.

Susan could only conclude now that the source of this collective affection was Hermione Granger's sincerity, and detachment. She chanced a glance at the profile of the man accompanying them, and thought how an intelligent, introverted man had to endure fawning and the admiration of women, young and old, who probably didn't understand half of the things he wrote in his books or said in his lectures. An intelligent, detached woman like Hermione Granger, who spoke only the truth—who would never flatter, or judge too harshly—was probably a refreshing change.

Their small, incongruous group arrived with no difficulty at the staff room, where they were met with pleased exclamations and offers of cake. Afterwards, as the party went down to dinner and came up again for coffee, she would not remember much except Snape's inquiries about Leys (sweet Leys of the high ponytails and the grass and the buttercups)—and the way he kept darting glances at the Transfiguration mistress; talking to her with the warmth of a brother or an old friend, trying to draw her into conversation, but with a quality of helplessness that spoke quite a different story.

/ \ / \ / \

Someone, somewhere in the castle, closed a door; Susan woke with a start.

Her eyes fluttered closed when she realized that she was still safe in the staff room, warm in front of the fireplace and wrapped comfortably in a knitted blanket (probably courtesy of Sprout; Susan could smell her characteristic patchouli smell). For a moment she could forget the portrait of some headmaster or other over the mantelpiece, and be transported to her Leys common room of years back; she could imagine that outside, there lay not the rolling hills of Scotland but the drenched buttercup fields outside her old college. She imagined that the smell was still fresh in her nostrils—the smell of sweat, and grass, and weekday mornings that would forever evoke the hard, sweet years she had spent there; she remembered their names, those fresh-faced girls for whom physical exertion and dizzying amounts of study had become a daily habit. She wondered if they remembered her still, and she allowed herself to feel the sadness of her solitude.

She was startled to realize that she was not alone in her room, when a male voice interrupted the silence.

"I suppose you have no new answer to give me."

That was Professor Snape—difficult indeed to mistake that voice, so sonorous, and so very unlike any other voice that Susan had ever heard; and yet it was unlike him, for all throughout his conversations with her and those halcyon minutes in the staff room with the rest of the professors, there had been in his voice a quality of moderate, cultured cheerfulness; something more personal than politeness, and more impersonal than friendliness. Now there was nothing of that left, and the helplessness that Susan had noticed in his interactions with Professor Granger stung her now, thrown into relief as he asked a simple question.

"No, Severus. I'm sorry."

And that was Professor Granger; polite, reserved. Part of Susan had expected her to be the other person present, for what reasons she (Susan) knew not. In the silence that followed Susan thought that they were probably seated in the window behind her chair, by the windows that overlooked the lake. She heard Snape rise—she could tell that it was him because the sound of his cane echoed hollowly as he began to pace, his footsteps producing small shuffling sounds on the parts of the stone floor that were without carpeting.

"Why are you here?" Professor Granger murmured. Susan imagined her setting down her teacup and peering at Snape over the spectacles that she took to wearing in the evenings.

The pacing ceased, and Susan listened for a reply.

"I have told you. I wanted to be here for your birthday."

"That would certainly be a first, in eight years."

"Nine." This Snape bit out, astonishing Susan with its sudden bitterness. "It has been nine years. And you know that I would have come, if you had asked."

"Oh yes." In Professor Granger's voice Susan detected the first stirrings of derision; how easily did that polite reserve translate to cold sarcasm. "I'm sure you would have."

Snape's soft footsteps and the sound of his cane; a sudden cessation. Was he standing in front of the windows, looking out? Had he stopped in front of Professor Granger's chair, watching her with that penetrating, intelligent gaze? Susan wished that she could see, and knew a moment of shame for intruding on the privacy of their hushed, bitter conversation.

"I came," he whispered. Susan struggled to hear. "I came, whenever you called me and whenever you needed my help. I have been more like a dog than a man when it comes to you, Hermione."

Professor Granger was silent.

"Have I done something to displease you?" was Snape's quiet response to her silence. "I came because you haven't answered my owls since the year began. Apparently you haven't even opened them," he added bitterly, "because if you had, you would have known that I would be in Edinburgh. That I would come to see you."

"_Shhh."_ Professor Granger shushed Snape. "Not quite so loud. You'll wake Susan Stewart."

"I don't _care_ about Susan Stewart!" Snape retorted angrily. "I don't care about any of them. You ignore my every attempt to see you for nine months, you avoid me at every party and dinner, and when I do manage to corner you, you haven't even the courtesy to be honest with me." Professor Granger made to interrupt but Snape went on; "And you had the audacity to insinuate that I—with—with someone else. When you know so well that for almost a decade it has been only _you_—"

"I don't have to listen to this—" And there was Crookshanks (a ginger cat of ancient, indeterminate age) ripping out a loud _meow_; Susan could imagine that he had been knocked out of his mistress' lap, perhaps by her standing up.

"_Yes, _you do! You bloody well have to!"

"No, _you listen._" Professor Granger's voice was icy and Susan winced as she imagined Snape might have. "I don't belong to you, and you don't belong to me. I don't _care_ if you spend your time entertaining groupies at your flat, and I couldn't possibly care less about you and that—that _Maureen_ creature—"

"Is that what your silence is about?" her companion bit out; and then the harsh voice gave way to melancholy. "It was a picture in the _Prophet_, wasn't it? Printed in January after a New Year's party. I should have guessed, and yet how could I have done so? You've never before shown an interest in any of my affairs, as you pointed out at every opportunity."

There was silence. And then Professor Granger's voice: "Is that all you have come to say? If it is, then I imagine you will have no further purpose in staying here. I assure you I have heard you quite clearly."

There was the sound of rustling fabric, of someone preparing to leave.

"May I call again?" said Snape, quietly. "You have expressed no interest in going to the festival with me. May I call at another time?"

Silence, and then: "Hermione, please. I am sorry for my harshness. Please allow me the favor of your company."

"I don't think that would be fair to either of us. You don't owe me anything, anymore. You shouldn't have to keep seeking me out to pay—to pay whatever debt it is that you imagine you have. I've had enough of your gratitude."

"_Gratitude?_" Even Susan, hidden from view, shrank from the explosion of that word. "Am I never to hear the end of that dirty word? Of course I am grateful. You were my friend when no one else would speak my name without spitting—you wrote that biography, researched for months and struggled to be fair, none of which you had to do—you took on a pseudonym to spare me the difficulties of having to be publicly grateful for the efforts of a former student—but Hermione, you have exacted punishment from me as well."

Silence.

"You have hurt me at every possible opportunity, sending for me when you need me and pushing me away when you have taken what you needed. I have not minded, because I'm only too happy to feel like I can be of any use to you; but your treatment of me, over the last nine years, should be enough to ensure that all vestiges of that gratitude should be extinguished. I begin to understand that this is what you desire."

"What exactly do you mean?"

A momentary silence; Susan imagined, vividly, Snape standing, clutching at his cane with whitened knuckles, gathering the courage to say more.

"Is this the end?" he said finally. "Are you sending me away for the last time?"

Professor Granger snorted, if ever such a word could be applied to any action of hers. "I have been sending you away for a long time now, Severus." She said this casually, almost jokingly, but the clattering of teacup against saucer betrayed her.

"You know that at any time you could have sent me away for good, if you had really wanted to." Slow, dreadfully slow footsteps, as though he were walking toward her; Susan strained to hear. "I was grateful to you for a long time but I have loved you for much longer than that. Hermione, I—"

"Shh." At the incredulous silence that followed, Professor Granger called out, "Miss Stewart? Are you awake?"

/ \ / \ / \

- - - (end of part 1 of 2) - - -

Notes:

1) Time and dates: By a happy coincidence, I wasn't fudging with regard to what day Hermione's birthday (19 September) should fall on; I had intended from the beginning that nine years should have elapsed since she had worked with Professor Snape at the age of twenty or twenty-one (year 2000), and when I went to cross-check my facts prior to posting this story, it turned out that in 2009 Hermione Granger's birthday does fall on a Saturday, as does mine. So I'm happy to report that no liberties have been taken with the time-line (apart, of course, from everything being AU.)

2) The bursar manages the financial affairs of a college or university, while the warden (mentioned as being responsible for the Hogwarts contingent's seats at Edinburgh) is the head of a college or school. I'm simply assuming the existence of a bursar at Hogwarts.

3) I wrote this as an extrapolation of a theme in Josephine Tey's book _Miss Pym Disposes_, as might have been obvious from my borrowing of the name Laetitia Pym. I was very pleased with the author's portrayal of a quiet, reasonably intelligent person (in this case Susan Stewart) who finds herself catapulted into celebrity and who comes to a school, finding herself immersed in the affairs of staff and students. Susan's last name was borrowed from a character who might have lived in Scotland and graduated from Leys Physical Training College, with a curriculum so demanding and extensive that the students are allowed to take up medical positions. Facets of Hermione's character have been drawn from meditations on one of the Leys staff.

Furthermore, the subject of gratitude being a block to a healthy relationship should be familiar to any reader of the Lord Peter Wimsey stories. I obviously am not very original.

4) "A sidelong, pickerel smile"—familiar to many readers as coming from the Roethke Poem "Elegy for Jane," a poem that has long been a favorite among SSHG readers. Read it and you'll see why.

5) Homages to other fic writers: "B&B" is a nod to one of my favorite, one of the most unusual, SSHG fics, "The Silvering Divide" by somigliana. Oriel and the Oxbridge feeling of this text is a nod, too, to "Round Midnight" by Clare/MetroVampire, completed in 2002, a most literate, enjoyable read.

6) Late tea at the staffroom: it probably was quite late for tea, but I can imagine the school would offer a late tea for those staff members with classes that run late into the afternoons.

Med school makes me depressed, and depression makes me churn out first chapters to new stories instead of laboring over my old ones (not that I've abandoned them). However, unlike many of my favorite fic writers who abandoned their stories and the fandom, I aten't dead—I'm still here, writing new chapters to old stories, however slowly.


	2. The Science of Flying

**Story Title: **Miss Stewart Disposes

**Chapter: **The Science of Flying (2/2)

**Author notes: **I'm sorry for the long wait, for those of you who were looking forward to the end of this story. Thank you for coming back for the second chapter. Some notes:

1) The tone of the story and some of the vocabulary and dialogue are written after the style of the book that inspired this fic, _Miss Pym Disposes_ by Josephine Tey. It's my love song to one of my favorite authors.

2) Warning: This is seven pages of Hermione Granger moaning about her misgivings and fears and why she won't jump into a relationship. I'm not particularly proud of how it natters on about a quite simple issue, but people have had worse hang-ups, I'm sure.

**/ \ / \ / \**

There is nothing faster than the speed of human thought, and in a matter of seconds Susan was able to wander into her memories of the night that had passed, wondering how she could have failed to see what was so obvious. She had prided herself always on being an observant, clever judge of human nature; in the past weeks, she had proven herself the very opposite of the latter, and as anything but the former. Now she found herself mistaken about Severus Snape as well.

How could she have missed the way that his eyes had kept track of Professor Granger's progress throughout the room, even as he had turned on her (Susan) the full force of his charm? It was not an inconsiderable charm, and it consisted not of flattery or the shallow flirtatious conversation of young men she had known, but an attentiveness and intelligence of conversation, something deeper and more sincere than wit.

Perhaps she had been so trapped by it, so caught in the dizzying awareness of a man she had admired for so very long, that she had failed to notice how he always knew Professor Granger's whereabouts in the room—she who spared him hardly a glance except to hand him a cup of tea and inquire as to the suitableness of its temperature?

And yet she, Professor Granger, was not cold; she could be anything but. For wasn't this Laetitia Pym, who had defended a man in danger of the gallows, who had gone out of her way to save a man hated by the world? Susan thought of a young Hermione Granger, driven by her principles and fueled by the energy of her youth; Susan thought of those many nights she must have spent, working by candlelight in Oriel at Oxford and piecing together the triumphs and sadnesses of a man for whom no one else had cared.

She had done it for no glory of her own, to be sure; no one was likely to know that she was the woman responsible for a biography that had turned an entire history on its head. No one but the man who stood in that same room with Susan now.

Susan had wanted proof that Hermione was normal, warm-blooded, capable of love and the sweetness of tender feelings; this was the proof. Rising from her chair, Susan turned to look at Professor Granger with new eyes, and knew that if she (Susan) was amazed at the sight of such a woman, then it was no wonder that Snape was permanently transfixed.

/ \ / \ / \

As Susan turned, she saw Snape's face, and the expression on it twisted slowly to one of embarrassed pain and humiliation. It was a forceful reminder that he was still a private man, who had been long accustomed not to reveal his weaknesses to strangers, even has he might open himself willingly for Hermione Granger's scrutiny and ridicule.

His mouth moved and twisted, and closed and opened, but it seemed he could not find the words that were threatening to claw their way from his throat; and whether they would be angry, or hurt, or both, Susan never found out, because Professor Snape turned wordlessly and left the room. The pregnant, heavy silence that followed was punctuated by the sound of his cane growing more distant, and Susan could not remember feeling more remorseful in her whole, short life.

She turned to Professor Granger, fearing that the other woman would be as angry. "Professor, I—"

"Hush, Miss Stewart." To Susan's surprise, a smile—unfamiliar and welcome—whispered softly across the Professor's face, and remained there as Professor Granger sat down again by the window and Susan crossed the room to sit in front of her. "You must forgive him. I'm sure he didn't mean to be rude to you. I hope you understand."

"I'm the one who should apologize," Susan said, and she was surprised that of the number of thoughts dancing in her mind, this was the only one that made it out of her mouth. "Please, Ma'am, I woke up and didn't know where I was and before I knew it—"

"There's no reason to be anxious. I'm certain Professor Snape and I both understand. Don't make yourself uneasy."

There, again, that soft smile; perhaps it was this unexpected kindness in Professor Granger's expression that compelled Susan to want to reach out for her hand and tell her whatever sweet, consoling words could be found. But before she could speak, the other woman interrupted her.

"His behavior might seem odd and discourteous now," Professor Granger was saying pensively, "but if this had happened years ago you wouldn't have been half so surprised. In fact I still think you're lucky you didn't get hexed just for being in the same room."

"I—surely not," Susan stammered, not knowing what else to say.

"When I met Professor Snape, Miss Stewart, he was not a nice man. Whether he'd been a nice man to start with is a mystery to me, but years of being bullied and then having to constantly play unkind and unpleasant roles has left him rather a mess in the personality department. When people began to treat him differently after the war, I think he felt at liberty to fashion a new personality for himself—one not quite so unpleasant, and yet not so different from his old personae that it wouldn't feel artificial, like yet another mask."

"And… that's your doing, Professor Granger," Susan said, sitting up and looking in wonder at the woman before her. "I mean. I'm sorry to be so awkward and I probably sound like an idiot. But _you're_ Laetitia Pym! Has anybody ever guessed?"

The other woman shook her head. "Nobody knows except my publisher, Harry, and of course, the man himself. But it's too kind of you to say, Miss Stewart, that his metamorphosis is any of my doing. In fact it's a metamorphosis I never desired or expected."

In those last words Susan detected a hint of melancholy.

"I just… I understand why he might be grateful." At the word a shadow seemed to fall over Professor Granger's face, and Susan hurried to correct her mistake. "I apologize for not telling you I was awake, and I'm sorry for eavesdropping on what I knew was probably a very private conversation. I promise that I'll never—never reveal to anybody anything that I heard this evening."

"I never expected you would," was the slightly surprised response.

"And if you desire it, I will not bring it up with either of you."

Professor Granger, with some wordless waves of her wand (and Susan couldn't help but admire her effortless ease), levitated the entire tea set from the sideboard to a nearby table; to Susan's delight and relief, she appeared to be settling in for a longer conversation. "I appreciate that. For some reason, however, I find myself… not objecting to telling you some things and to hearing your opinions. I confess to a selfish motive, however. I find I'm not too thrilled with the thought of appearing, in your eyes, to be a tyrannical woman who enjoys torturing an honest man, when he has confessed to loving her for a decade."

At Professor Granger's penetrating look, a swift blush traveled up Susan's neck to the roots of her hair. "It isn't my desire or my duty to judge you, Professor Granger."

"I think that, considering the content of this conversation, you might call me Hermione."

"I—yes." Despite the situation, Susan couldn't fight the grin that flitted across her own face. It felt like a small triumph that she should be making this small step toward becoming Hermione Granger's friend. "Yes, of course. And please call me Susan."

/ \ / \ / \

The rest of the evening was spent still in the staff room, warmed by the roaring fire and talking while looking out at the starless night. Professor Granger was still in a pensive mood, and though at times conversation flowed freely, there were moments when neither of them spoke; Professor Granger wore what Susan had come to think of as far-away eyes.

Susan did not mind the silence, because they allowed her to appreciate the familiar, gratifying sensation of having a friend to talk to. Thinking of her old school earlier in the evening, she had felt the sense of her own isolation begin to consume her, and appreciated this unprecedented and yet wholly welcome change in Professor Granger's behavior.

"You might remember, Miss Stewart—Susan—that we worked together while I was at Oxford after the war."

"Yes, I remember hearing that over the dinner table."

"I was reading both Transfiguration and Potions, and I sought to correspond with Professor Snape to ask for his advice on my Potions dissertation. When he told me to get lost because he was working on a project of his own, I dogged his steps until at last I found out what he was working on. He was stuck on a variation of the Wolfsbane potion commissioned by the B&B. I thought it would be an excellent idea to take this on as my project instead, and he couldn't do much by way of objecting, because he was absolutely stumped. I did most of the theoretical work and he verified my theories with experiments, and, well… as you may have surmised, I spent a lot of my time here, in this castle."

"And did he… form an attachment to you then?" Susan was afraid that Professor Granger would recoil from this direct line of questioning, but to her surprise, the other woman shrugged and bit into a biscuit.

"Unfortunately, no. At least, I do not think so. He was as dismissive of me as ever. I couldn't blame him; he had a lot on his mind. I, on the other hand…" A sigh. "Well, sometimes I think that I'm still that same potions assistant making eyes at him over the cauldron."

Susan could think of nothing to say, and wrestled with a few ideas when Professor Granger went on, "My greatest difficulty is that I cannot decide if he ever would have taken an interest in me if I hadn't written that biography. I enjoyed his gratitude, for that is what I thought I wanted, but when his affection seemed to me to be a fruit of that same gratitude, I found I didn't want it. Not in the same way."

Susan's wrinkled forehead and expression must have given away her confusion, because Professor Granger gave a small, mirthless laugh. "Is something the matter?"

"I just… don't understand, I suppose."

"It's quite simple. I do not want to be yet another life debt. He was enslaved for many years by different masters; I find it… distasteful, and intolerable, that because of one act of benevolence, I should have become yet another master. I never expected or wanted this particular brand of gratitude. I was quite transparent as a student, Miss Stewart—"

"_Susan—_"

"—yes, of course, Susan. I was transparent enough that he knew how I felt about him, make no mistake, even before I lifted a pen and holed myself up with books and interview records to write that biography. And when he was confronted with the results of the book—of this benign kind of fame—and its consequences, I think a part of him turned to me and wondered what he could give me that I could possibly want. He knew that I loved him, and he sought to return that love; I think he convinced himself, in the end, that he truly does want me."

No more was said for some minutes. Susan, who felt helpless, was torn between wondering what had possessed Professor Granger to tell her these things—for she was no expert either on giving advice or on the private lives of either party, as much as she appreciated the confidence—and feeling sorry for Professor Snape, who had no such confidante on this cold evening.

It must have been deeply painful for Professor Granger to write about Lily Potter. Or Lily Evans, as she would, perhaps, always be in Professor Snape's mind. His affection for her had arisen spontaneously, out of his own preferences and desires; she had been found attractive for her own sake, and not because he had profited from her in some way. This was, perhaps, how the Transfigurations Mistress perceived matters.

Into the silence, Susan ventured, "Is… that what he told you?"

A pause, and then, "No. But it was not difficult to surmise."

"Do you regret it? I mean writing as Laetitia Pym."

"Yes. Sometimes. I don't know if this is possible, but sometimes I think that if I hadn't done anything, Severus' exoneration in the public eye would have come about in a different way anyway, and I could have spent a long time trying to get to know him better, and trying, as hard as I could have, for him to get to know me. And possibly to like me. On his own terms." From the corner of her eye Susan saw Professor Granger shake her head. "I don't _know_!"

The vehemence of those last words startled Susan. "I'm sorry. I'm asking too many questions."

"No. Please don't apologize. I'm the one choosing to inflict my decade-old woes on you, when you barely know me and I've hardly made an effort to know you. It is only that, this evening, I find myself at a loss. And I believe that I might need… advice, of sorts, if you are willing to give it." A sigh. "It is possible that I have been overthinking the matter for years now, to the point that I've convinced myself of some things, too. I cannot be objective, and instead find myself paralyzed."

"I am hardly an objective judge myself."

"Yes. But certainly more objective than myself. It is refreshing to have a person, who is completely detached from all the circumstances of a problem, to take a look at it and see it for what it is."

Susan sat up straighter, apprehensive and wondering if anything she might say might convince Professor Granger to take any particular course of action. "On which matter, specifically, did you want my advice?"

Silence stretched out between them, and it seemed to Susan that the other woman was picking words carefully, as if out of a hat. "I do not enjoy inflicting pain on Severus. He is a good man and deserves all of the good fortune he has got, and it is painful to think that I am the one thing that prevents him from being completely happy—that my coldness to him and my refusal to accept him should be a source of frustration. I think that were I to send him away permanently, he would manage without me, and perhaps find, and freely choose to love, somebody else."

"I… do not necessarily agree. But please, go on."

"There is, however, one small matter."

"Yes?"

"That I think his departure might kill me." Professor Granger, turning her head to look at Susan's alarmed expression, smiled a wistful half-smile. "You might have heard that I was avoiding him these last nine months. Those have been painful enough; in some way I have had his owls (though they went unanswered) and the knowledge of his bewilderment to console me—however selfish that may sound. I think that if I send him away permanently I might not survive the experience.

"He is what you might call… my first love. Heavens, what a trite expression. But I had never before, as an adult, formed any serious attachment, and I haven't since. I've spent more than ten years pining away for a former Death Eater; how on earth this has happened, I have no idea. But there it is."

"Am I right in assuming," Susan ventured, "that this unhappy compromise—of keeping Professor Snape at arm's length without completely rejecting him—is the best that has occurred to you?"

Professor Granger paused. "Well. That sums it up rather nicely, I think."

"Professor Granger—_Hermione_," Susan stammered, "I am nowhere near an expert on these things. I have never formed any attachments of my own, and my own experience consists solely of living vicariously through Regency romances." At the other woman's abrupt, unexpected bark of laughter, Susan felt herself encouraged to continue, and smiled despite herself. "But if I were to look at your predicament as a scientific problem…"

Hermione (as Susan forced herself to call the other woman, even in her thoughts now), turned to face her, appearing suddenly intrigued. "Go on."

"Am I correct in positing that the objective is for the both of you to be happy?"

"Why, yes."

"And that you perceive that the major obstacle in achieving this is that you cannot tell if his feelings for you are genuine?"

Again, a pause, and then: "No, I believe them to be genuine; or that he is at least convinced that they are genuine. It's more that their origin—which is his gratitude—makes me question how long his affection and desire would last, since it took the biography to generate them; I can't help but feel that since the origin is so… _artificial_… that they are, too, synthetic and short-lived."

Susan allowed herself a short silence. Hermione was leaning over the small table to prepare more tea, and Susan watched the ritual of tea leaves and magically boiled water while pondering a possible solution.

It seemed to her quite simple, as it no doubt would be if Severus Snape and Hermione Granger had been characters in a Jane Austen. Mr Darcy, after all, had not hesitated to ask for Lizzie Bennet's hand a second time, even if the foundation of the lady's affections had been gratitude for his love and his actions. In books characters moved together in a dance, leading all of them to some sensible and inevitable conclusion. Those authors had never had to deal with Hermione Granger, who was so terminally afraid of unhappiness that she had allowed the fear to paralyze her into rejecting a man who loved her. Who loved her sincerely, Susan knew, despite Hermione's own misgivings.

"Whether or not the affection and desire would last is an unknown variable," Susan said at last.

"Yes, Susan. That is true."

"And there is only one way of finding out the answer, isn't it?" Susan turned her chair to face Hermione's, and fixed the other woman with an intent stare.

A frown. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"I mean… I mean only that to find out for sure, you must embark on the experiment." Before Hermione could say another word, Susan summoned a copy of her book that she had seen on one of the desks; it was a copy she had given Pomona Sprout, who meant well, but who found the subject so uninteresting that she read it slowly and in short bursts. Susan suspected she wouldn't miss the book if it were given to the Transfigurations mistress.

"There are only so many variables that you can control, Professor. Hermione. Accelerators, aerodynamics, the make of the broom, the quality of your own cushioning charms. Sooner or later you will encounter something you can neither control nor predict—a flying object, an abrupt change in weather, a strong and sudden wind. But if you do not undertake the actual experiment of a flight, you will stay on the ground and will have achieved none of your objectives."

Hermione took the book and cradled it in her hands for a few moments. "It sounds so easy, when you have put it like that." A short, mirthless laugh. "I've never been able to fly, you know, unless forced. I'm hopelessly acrophobic. So I believe it's a perfect metaphor."

"In some ways the problem is really that simple." Susan allowed her expression to soften. "Please think about it. Nine years is long enough to keep a man waiting. And I think you know that gratitude is not the poorest foundation of love—I think many marriages have been based on less—and I also think that you deserve to find out if there is more than gratitude in his affections."

Susan left the room then, knowing that the rest would be up to the woman sitting forlornly before the window, faced with the dizzying heights of possibility. She remembered their first meeting in the drawing room by the Great Hall; remembered how she had been struck by that unsmiling and yet warm confidence, how she had been intimidated despite herself. She felt none of this intimidation now, and knew instead a burst of affection and kinship. She heard Professor Hermione Granger open the book, perhaps to its first chapter. Susan knew the first sentence by heart.

_The strongest enemy of a wizard on a broomstick is his fear; when that is conquered, everything else follows._

/ \ / \ / \

Susan Stewart, to her secret shame, had not managed to figure out what festival was being celebrated in Hogsmeade. On Saturday morning she contemplated asking anyone among the staff, but was afraid of being chuckled over and patted. She longed to ask Professor Granger, who was the least likely to patronize her, but the Transfigurations mistress was nowhere to be found during breakfast.

At Leys, Saturday mornings had been filled with activity. There were still classes in the morning and in the early afternoon, and anyway the girls needed to snatch all of the time at their disposal for study and sport. There had been no time and no leisure to sleep in on these mornings.

It was with surprise that Susan noted the contrast here because, for her second Saturday now, half of the Hogwarts students didn't wake for breakfast. Merlin only knew what they found to occupy themselves late at night so that they didn't wake up until late the next morning. The staff, on the other hand, were bright-eyed and very much awake, sipping coffee comfortably and reading the _Prophet. _Susan privately supposed that it must be because they looked forward to the weekends with as much enthusiasm as the students themselves.

This morning Cassandra Gillespie looked the most excited of them all. She chose a seat beside Susan herself, and Susan was hard-pressed to pay attention to her as she talked on about the difficulty of choosing the appropriate dress. The festivities, apparently, started early in the afternoon when the sun was high and ended early the next day, when, presumably, all the wine had been drunk and all the carousing had been accomplished.

Susan tuned most of this conversation out; Miss Gillespie was very capable of conducting one-sided conversations, after all. Susan's mind was more preoccupied with the thought that these were her last days at Hogwarts. She was a half-blood, and had never lived in such a large community before. Magic itself was in the air, and these last few weeks had been like an excursion into an entirely different world where a family, unlike hers, never had to hide the existence of their magic from their neighbors.

Later, when she excused herself from the Great Hall and wandered over the grounds, she found the Charms club dotting the trees with fairy lights in anticipation of the afternoon ahead; the fairy lights stretched all the way to the entrance to Hogsmeade, she learned, and the ordinariness of it pleased her, and she longed to make herself a part of it all.

In this frame of mind she found herself standing outside Miss Gillespie's rooms, pausing for a moment to listen to the sweet, happy music that crept under the door and into the hallway.

"Cassandra?" she said. "Have you got a dress I can borrow?"

/ \ / \ / \

"_Mine, _please sign mine!"

Most of Susan's expectations about the Hogsmeade festival had been fulfilled. As the shadows lengthened towards evening and the fairy lights glowed in the dimmer landscape, she could see all that the villagers' high cheer and enterprising spirits had to offer: bonfires taller than grown men, tables and tables of food, musicians playing the slightly discordant but oddly charming melodies that wizards called music, booths of flowers and jewelry and oddities, and games she had never imagined could exist. She also saw what wizards outside of her own family wore when they were not in the Muggle world—an eclectic, endearing mix of the old-fashioned and the ridiculous—and she would have been content to sit and notice all of these things, storing them in her mind to peruse later.

What she hadn't expected was the small crowd that gathered around her. Apparently someone in the local Quidditch supply shop had heard of her presence at the festival, and had taken advantage of it to sell multiple copies of _The Science of Flying_. Around her boys ranging from about nine to fourteen—those halcyon years when a passion for Quidditch was almost always at its height, she thought—battled with more aggressive, slightly older girls in getting Susan to sign their newly-purchased copies. She felt herself shrink from the fact that some of them were her students, who had never before associated tiny Professor Stewart with the Susan Stewart who had written a famous book. She would have to face them across the Quidditch pitch at least once more this week, and she hoped only to survive the embarrassment of the experience.

Suddenly, the crowd around her grew still and Susan watched in surprise as hands were withdrawn from the air and the children's shouts receded. Curious, Susan turned to see Professor Snape standing behind her. Around the both of them, the children had succumbed into the kind of silence that youth reserves for expressing equal measures of awe and fear. Susan wanted, too, to melt into the crowd then, for she saw that Professor Snape's face was unsmiling.

For a second, she was transported into the night before, into that moment of frozen, mutual horror when she had been witness to his most private feelings. Now the stern expression on his face transformed him entirely, and Susan, for the first time, had an idea of what his students must have felt back when he was still mere Potions Master at Hogwarts. Back then, the children's silence would have meant only loathing and fear—and would have signified none of the hero worship that she could see in their faces now, as they contemplated whether they could have Professor Snape sign on Professor Stewart's book, or on a chocolate frog card, or on any other flat surface.

Before any of them could say anything, Professor Snape turned to them and said, "Will you please excuse us?" He didn't wait for a reply; he turned, and she followed him away, closer to the edge of the merry crowds, where it was more quiet.

She was relieved when, once they were out of earshot of anyone else, his expression resolved itself into a smile. Firelight from the bonfires danced across his face and his white linen shirt, folded at the sleeves—a strangely casual look for such a formal man.

"I hope you'll forgive me for that display," he said, extending a hand towards her as if in friendship, and she shook it mutely, startled. "I have been at the edge of that small crowd for about five minutes, and I couldn't wait any longer."

"Yes, of course," Susan said, a little confused.

"I must go straight to the point," he said. "Someone is waiting for me. I want only to apologize for my rudeness last evening. You were entirely blameless, and my carelessness in broaching a sensitive topic while in a common area was the cause of my own embarrassment. I hope you will forgive me."

Susan felt herself smile. "Not at all. I… can only hope that you believe me when I say that I take everything I have heard in confidence, and that I'm deeply sorry for not announcing my presence earlier." When Snape waved a hand dismissively, she tilted her head and whispered almost conspiratorially, "I must also thank you, Professor, for rescuing me from those children. I don't think half of them have even read my book, and I don't think many of them ever will!"

They both laughed. The moment of shared amusement united them, and they stood watching as, yards away, the children dispersed to find other sources of amusement, back in the crowd where Susan could see older students and some of her colleagues buying trinkets and dancing. Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout, she saw, were doing a jig, and Professor Hooch was nursing a drink while speaking to a local fiddler.

Susan wished to make an amusing or profound remark about the evening, or even about her experience at Hogwarts so far; but as she was searching for the right words to say how she wished she could have made an impact on Hogwarts and its people as they had had on her, Snape spoke.

"To drag you away from those children is a small favor compared to what you have accomplished, I believe." She turned to look at him; he was not looking at her, instead fixated on some point in the crowd, or perhaps on the sky above, lit by a thousand fires.

"What can you mean, Professor Snape?"

A smile curled the edge of one lip. "If you remember, I came yesterday with the sole purpose of persuading Professor Granger to accompany me to the Hogsmeade festival."

"Yes; I remember very well."

"Then it will please you to know that, with your aid, I have succeeded."

Surprised and suddenly breathlessly happy, she turned to him and had to restrain from clapping her hands gleefully, like a child.

"Have you really? But how? And I don't see her anywhere. Did you really?"

"She did come," he said; "She's here." His gaze slid sideways to hers, and she was surprised at the happy, content expression there. His eyes slid away again, and she followed his gaze as he searched for someone in the throng; and for a moment the crowd parted to reveal a woman, and she was both familiar and strange to Susan—familiar because she was most certainly the Transfigurations Mistress, but she was wearing the most open, relaxed expression Susan had ever seen on her. And she was looking straight at Susan and Snape.

"She is not only here," Susan heard him continue, "but she has agreed to accompany me to the festival… next year as well. And the year after that."

As Susan stared, transfixed, Professor Granger—_Hermione_—waved at them; and her hair was loose and her eyes were large and warm, and already Susan felt the man beside her gravitate in Hermione's direction, walking there almost involuntarily, accompanied by the crunch of leaves beneath his boots and his cane. And as Hermione waved Susan saw the ring on her finger which had not been there the night before. And with Hermione smiling up at the two of them, truly happy for the first time in years, Susan thought that, contrary to her first impression, Hermione Granger was a rather beautiful young woman after all.


End file.
